The kitchen was warm in that way only December can make it—oven heat, butter, sugar, and a little bit of chaos in the best possible sense.
Making Christmas cookies with my granddaughter isn’t really about the cookies at all. It’s about little hands covered in flour, giggles when sprinkles go everywhere except the tray, and the proud seriousness of a two-year-old who is absolutely convinced she is “helping.”
There’s dough on the counter, probably a few fingerprints in the frosting, and at least one cookie that looks like it was decorated by pure joy instead of any actual plan. And honestly, that’s the one I’ll remember most.
These are the kinds of moments that don’t stay in a season—they become part of the family story. Sweet, simple, and a little messy… just like love tends to be.